Why no abs, Logan?


Dear B,

It has come to my attention that my non-ab sharing, liking, and profile pic might need some splainin’. Nothing to be found on my pages that could be labeled as “chiseled”, not even a decent flashing of man boobs. I assure you it is nothing so specific as aversion.

I’ve decided to address this lack of dress that has littered our fair facebook, as well as other organized spamming erm, communal sites of the various kinds.

Rather than take it head on, (or is it stomach?) and give specific reasons, or personal feelings behind the “Why” in a list especially because most of us emotionally impaired people don’t really do that anyway, I will instead try and avoid any pejorative connotations or slip ups that might accidentally connect to a specific genre and offend delicate sense and sensibilities (gasp).

“So, a story then?” you ask. Well, why stray from my usual way of solving my inner-feeling riddles?

I may never be famous, my dearest B, but think of all of the money I save in Therapy!

Firstly, before I begin:

‘Logan, is there anything wrong with abs?’ Absolutely not!
‘Logan, do you have trouble with your own sexuality?’ Please.
‘Logan ___’

No more questions, boys and girls. Come, let us travel back in time, to the year, well let’s skip the exact date shall we? No, no, put away your calculator. Ahem. I will wait.

Once upon a time…

A young Logan sits lonely on a mid-summer’s day, still donned with her original and more easily miss-said and misspelled moniker using a magnifying glass to burn what little there is of a Ken dolls bump for privates.

“Original name!” someone calls, and she looks up to see the other cheerleaders skipping by.

Was it time already? Yes, yes it was!

Gathering up her book bag, she sighs, kicks Ken into the gutter where that scum weasel belongs, tightens her pony tail at the root, and dusts off her cheer skirt, shirt wrinkled and un-tucked, to gallop along after the rest of the girls. All of them, of course, still neat and clean. No icky plastic pieces of Ken’s genitalia stuck under their shoes, no, sir.

Much time passed or at least when you are young it feels that way, and Original Name sat patiently during every football game, watching, waiting for the time when she too would be twitterpated by the boys in pads and helmets. When that didn’t happen she cheered loudly during half time, all the while scanning the crowd hopeful that someone would catch her eye, but, alas, still nothing. Every other girl was interested in boys by this age, and even some of them already proficient at flirting what with years of fake boyfriend girlfriend drama under their belt. Was something wrong with her? Well, she was a teenager… What do you think?

(everyone say awwww)

She had just given up when all of a sudden! Onto the screen slides this man-boy crooning sounds of total rebellion.

Here is Original Name, standing in the gym, with the tv blaring music videos a la MTV, and there in the tiny pre-hd screen are cheerleaders just like her, but they are jumping around differently than she does, with abandon you might even say. Pon her soul! They look wild, happy, free, and at the group’s middle— a band.

The lead singer looks up challengingly into the camera and sings.

Load up on guns —- and briiiing your friends
It’s fuuun to lose —– and tooooo pretend
She’s overboard —- and seeeeeelf- assured
Oh no, I know a diiiiirty worddddddddd
Hellooooo, hellooooo, hellooooo, heeeeeellllooooooo

Could this man-boy be singing to her?

And the rest is history.

You might have guessed it by now. That’s right, Nirvana. Kurt Cobain came onto the scene swiping my brain right out of my head and replacing it with a moody, thunderstruck wanna be rebel. He came in with his poetic lyrics and a zesty hate for life; suddenly it all made sense! A girl like me might have found her kindred fatalistic point of view, albeit with far too much optimism to follow him down the path of actual self-infliction, but totally of a mind to hear it on loop with a blossoming love of the wounded soul.

I never went fan girl, it was much deeper than that… Shut up! It was! (sulky teen face)

No matter how much money he made, he still had greasy hair and a sweater on, but as long as he wrote me songs about fish with feet, I was smitten.


That’s how I roll.

And B, I know what you are thinking. No this is not to say one or the other is mutually exclusive, but the ab blast 500 for me is an afterthought indeed.

So no beefcake for this little zombie, she is quite sufficient to moan, “Brainnnssssszzzzzz” into the night.

“All Apologies”


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